


After

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Comeplay, Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Trophy Spouse AU, Tumblr Prompt, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 04:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15016703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Wealthy, powerful John Watson loves to watch his trophy husband Sherlock Holmes with another man, then fuck him. After.





	After

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by two Lovely Readers on tumblr: "John is rich/powerful and Sherlock is his trophy spouse", and "John likes to watch Sherlock with other men."

John stood and tapped a knife blade against his water glass, and the room quieted as the guests turned their attention his way. He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders in upright, soldierly posture, and held an improbably delicate crystal champagne flute by its stem in front of his waist.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight to support this important cause that means so much to me,” he began, meeting gazes here and there among the flickering candles and elegant flower arrangements, purposely high and low so that diners could carry on unimpeded conversation across the tables. “As you know, the foundation is new and this is the very first of what I hope will be many parties, and rest assured, your kind company is as highly valued as your donations.” A light ripple of laughter shimmered through the room. “In a moment, there will be a short film for you to watch, detailing the year’s goals and showing some of what we’ve already accomplished in our first eighteen months. I’m proud of the work, and I’m eager to share it with all of you.

“But first, I have to take a moment to share something else--someone else, to be precise--of whom I am also very proud, your host this evening, the clear light of my days and the star of in particular this, but I assure you, every night. My husband, Sherlock Holmes. Please do applaud him; he’s made you a fantastic party, from the red carpet to the most miniscule fold of your serviettes, honestly, he’s a genius. Sherlock, stand up here, darling.”

Sherlock—seated at another table with the Duke and Duchess of whatever, two Geldof daughers, and an internet thrillionaire—stood, bowing lightly in several directions and waving off the applause. He kissed three fingertips and blew it across the room to John, which drew more applause, and audible sighs. He quickly resumed his seat, and the Geldof daughter beside him squeezed his arm.

“Anyway, it says in the foundation’s charter that no speech given at one of these fundraisers can go on longer than four minutes,” John went on, eliciting another laugh, a whoop or two, and some handclapping. “As such, I’ll cut myself off except to thank you all again, really, from the bottom of my heart; nothing means more to me than this important charity, and you are all terribly, terribly generous. Enjoy the video--feel free to pass a hat, there, Gord! You know what I mean--and then enjoy the rest of the evening. To all of you, dear friends.” He lifted his glass and the guests did the same, everyone calling out good wishes. John cringed as he heard the glasses ring together, imagining the thin crystal shattering.

Later, as guests moved from dessert and coffees to the dance floor, the lounges and bars, or outside to smoke, John at last caught up to Sherlock and was able to claim him with affable excuses, guiding him gently by the elbow to a sparsely populated study where a humidor full of Cubans and a bar stocked with top shelf brown liquours were at the ready. They ducked into a corner together, spoke in low voices, close together.

“I told you you’d nothing to worry about,” John grinned at him. “I think the party’s smashing.”

Sherlock was faintly flushed--perhaps had had more than a single sip of each wine course, as he’d promised himself aloud while the two dressed for the evening--and though he frowned, his eyes were glittering. “Of course I was worried! This is my debut as a host, and you know how these people are. One wrong turn on the flatware and the gossip rags would have had me a pariah by Tuesday morning.”

“I heard Eleanor Dunn-Cortland talking up the menu to Melville Whitehouse from  _City & Town_; I imagine you’ll get a rave in next month’s issue. They’ve got a photographer here, as well.”

Sherlock looked pleased, and relieved. “I can only pray. You know Whitehouse has singlehandedly made every  _grand dame_  since Cookie Grosvenor-Dicks created her Springtime Revels.”

“I don’t know who that is, but I’m sure that’s impressive,” John smiled at him.

“I think including a few upper class grifters and con artists has paid off; people keep complimenting me on assembling--” here Sherlock lowered his upper lip and exaggeratedly rounded his accent “--such  _tirribly_   _innn_ teresting company, my dear!”

“You’re brilliant, as always, at everything,” John assured him. “Bit young yet to be a  _grand seigneur_ , though, wouldn’t you agree? Headline: It Boy Sherlock Holmes Throws Fete Of The Year; Handsome Husband Eager To Bend Him Over The Bar When All These People Clear Out At Last.”

“I’d read that story,” Sherlock smirked. “Ah, here comes that one you wanted me to invite. . . Mr Kane, please meet my husband, John Watson, CEO of SurgiTek and chair of the foundation. John, Alistair Kane.”

John stretched out his hand for a shake. “Pleasure, Mr Kane. Sherlock and I were just devastated by your Othello at the Forester last summer. Couldn’t stop talking about it for days.”

Alistair Kane--giving Sherlock a run for his tailor’s money in a slim-lapeled red-black tuxedo and gold-white shirt uninhibited by necktie, open at the throat--was a shaven-headed man in his mid-thirties with a jaw made of right angles and expressive dark eyes. He shook John’s hand warmly, and gave Sherlock and John each a cheeky smile.

“You’re very kind to say so,” he replied.

“Enjoying yourself?” John asked. “Can I get you another drink, maybe?”

“Thanks, no, I’ve just got a refill. Great party, yeah. Amazing food. And that band! Tremendous.” He directed his compliments to Sherlock, the host.

“I’m happy to hear it,” Sherlock said.

“I’m really interested in the foundation’s work. It’s so important for us to take care of our own, you know? The young ones who maybe don’t have it so easy.”

John and Sherlock agreed, passing a quick glance back and forth.

“All that to the side though, no matter the cause, please consider putting me on your permanent guest list; it really is a fabulous event. Maybe a dance later, if you’re free?” Alistair aimed his invitation at Sherlock, not much in it; he’d have said the same to a party hostess. Probably would have. He turned his smile back toward John, “If that’s not stepping on anyone’s toes, of course.”

“Not at all,” John said. “Sherlock loves to dance; he’d likely enjoy a chance for a partner who can be counted on not to accidentally step on his.”

“Don’t talk like that about yourself, John, you’re a perfectly adequate dance partner.”

John mugged. “Damned with faint praise. My treasure; how he _will_ talk me up.”

Alistair gave John a nudge on the arm with the back of his hand, stepping closer as he did so. “I imagine you’re a born leader, John,” he appeased, ingratiating himself.

“I’d follow him anywhere,” Sherlock affirmed, then quickly said, “I am required to mingle; must make a good impression on all the Real Housewives of W8.” He leaned in close to John, a quick air kiss by his cheek, and he whispered, “Oh, yes, please,” as he drew away. “Enjoy your night, Mr Kane.”

“Alistair. Please. Let’s make it friendly, hm?”

“Toddle on, then, Sherlock, my darling; charm them if you can; threaten if all else fails. Alistair, let me buy you a drink. I think I may have a position for you, if you’re interested.”

*

Half past midnight, the party still rollicking on oblivious to the absence of their host, the foundation’s chair, and an actor best known for a bio pic wherein he played a young Bob Marley in his Rude Boy days. For their part, the three had rendezvoused in John and Sherlock’s hotel suite--easier to stagger into a lift than to navigate the trip home in the wee hours of the morning--where they made only the briefest, double-entendre laden small talk before John settled into a tufted arm chair in the second bedroom, one ankle atop the opposite knee, his jacket shed but otherwise still smart in his tuxedo trousers, polished shoes, cufflinks, and tie tack.

At first, John could tell it was hard for Alistair to forget about him; even as Sherlock stood close to him, unbuttoning his own shirt cuffs, tugging out the tails, whispering through dirty-smiling lips against the side of Alistair’s neck. Alistair kept cutting his glance to John, as if assuring and reassuring that all was well. John gave a fractional nod, let one corner of his mouth turn up, approving. Encouraging.

Sherlock laid long fingers against the angular jaw and guided Alistair back to him, kissed him, plucking lips and soft wet sounds as he unfastened all his shirt buttons, until Alistair gave in to the moment and slid a hand around Sherlock’s half-bare waist, pressing his low back to draw him closer. They were of a perfectly similar height, the breaks in their trousers, their belt buckles lining up. Alistair’s pocket square was four-peaked, lust red, gave John ideas. Soon their kisses grew heated, and there came hums and soft moans in between. Sherlock shed his shirt, balled it up and tossed it, and Alistair hooked a thumb into the back waist of his trousers, fingers grabbing, grasping tight.

John licked his lips, tipped his head, watched. Kept quiet.

Moments later Alistair was closed-eyed, spine curled, knees wide apart as he sat on the bed’s edge, and Sherlock—naked, soles of his lovely long feet just visible beneath the curve of his arse as he sat on his heels—opened Alistair’s belt, the column of buttons, adjusting his trousers to display his thickly veined cock and virtually hairless, swollen bollocks. Sherlock slicked his fingers and palm, nuzzled his face against the fine fabric of Alistair’s trousers there in the crease between belly and thigh, and slipped the ring of his fist in easy slow-tempo strokes, pulling Alistair’s prick to full, rampant hardness. He made appreciative noises— _ooh. mm_ —and in one smooth, following stroke, Sherlock switched hands, held him, made an extravagant show of tonguing around his crown, nudging and flicking at his foreskin.

Alistair let out a heavy groan and rested a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. His jacket shifted open so that John could see the ghost of his dark nipple through his shirt, and then with another small movement, the shape of it beaded up against the fabric. Sherlock’s head bobbed, slow and steady, swallowing deep, pulling back hard so his cheeks caved in. His lips were pink and his chin was wet. John’s prick was throbbing inside his trousers and he knew there would be a spot there on the placket, dark and wet, dripping his arousal.

Sherlock pulled off, hummed, wet his lips and went back to tongue-kissing the dusky head of Alistair’s cock, traced veins with his finger tip, tongue tip. From John’s vantage point he got a good look as Sherlock put a gentle arch in his low spine, and his slicked-up fingers found his opening, and he began to ready himself, pushing in a fingertip and beginning to thrust gently onto it, his whole torso rocking, his shoulders rolling.

John liked to fuck him. _After_.

His mouth slid down Alistair’s length once more and drew forth a hot groan that made John have to part his own lips and school his breathing. His balls ached, filling, and Sherlock, who always relished pushing himself to his own every edge, was already working three fingers into his hole, even as he sucked and sucked, his entire body now thrusting in time. John bit his lip.

Alistair lifted his hips off the bed, leaning back on one hand to steady himself, thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth, using him beautifully. Sherlock dropped his shoulders, opening his throat and his arse at once, fingers fucking in, cock fucking in, and John couldn’t look away though he feared he might come, held himself rock steady and still lest the rustle of his clothing bring him off unceremoniously into his tuxedo trousers before he even had a chance to pull Sherlock onto his lap, or to pin his face to the mattress with one splay-fingered hand against the blade of his cheek.

Alistair gave a warning, and Sherlock rolled back his head, raising his chest, and held his fingers still, stuffed into his hole, pumping Alistair’s cock with quick, firm strokes to make him spurt streams of creamy-thick cum onto Sherlock’s long bare throat, the last few thinner and stringy onto his upper chest. Sherlock, still fingering himself, wriggly and shivering, grabbed for his own bobbing prick and spit into his palm, pulling light, double-quick, groaning a long, low, _Ohhh_. . .as he came, and what he couldn’t direct onto his own chest, he caught on the edges of his fingers and smeared there.

Near violent with desire, John managed to keep his voice low—lower, perhaps, than usual, with more gravel and more wind in it—as he invited Alistair to catch his breath in the sitting room, have a drink, we’ll join you. _After_. With a loose, knowing smile, Alistair got his feet under him and tucked himself away as he cleared out, leaving the bedroom door slightly open as he went.

John was upright in a moment’s time, one hand fumbling with his trouser’s fastenings, the other at Sherlock’s upper arm, dragging him to his feet, turning him, kissing him messily, growling hunger for him. Sherlock lay on his back on the bed and pulled his knees up high, licked his fingers and went back to fucking himself as John slicked up, watching avidly, desperate. His gaze tracked the map of spunk-trails across Sherlock’s pecs and collarbones, beginning to dry and flake on his throat, and he planted a knee on the mattress, yanked at Sherlock’s wrist, leaned hard, shoved in. Sherlock let out a complaining, high pitched moan and set his ankles on John’s shoulders, pulling tight creases across the top edges of his shirt. The tail of John’s necktie dragged through the cum on Sherlock’s chest.

It went fast, fifteen or twenty hard shoves, Sherlock looking ruined and used up beneath him, mouth open, eyes open, and John grunted in time, and then held his breath, held Sherlock’s hip, came in hot thrumming waves, shuddering as he thought of his copious, backed-up cum spilling hot into Sherlock’s body.

John reassembled himself presentably and Sherlock wrapped up in a hotel robe, still marked all over with drying and dried spunk from his chin to to his navel, and now oozing between his arse cheeks. A quick drink, surprisingly not-awkward chat, an exchange of phone numbers and thanks for a spectacular night, and by then the party was surely breaking up, they needn’t go back to it.

Sherlock protested that the grand seigneur, It Boy, host with the most talented tongue in the British Isles should make a final round, but John raised an eyebrow as if to challenge him to shower, dress, and pretend to the face of no less a personage than Cookie Grosvenor-Dicks that he hadn’t just been involved in a scene of debauchery that even now was in evidence down the inside of his thigh. Sherlock surrendered.

“Fuck it. Let them eat cake.”

John grinned at him, at last loosening his necktie and undoing his first shirt button.

Sherlock started pulling back the bedding, shed the robe and nestled down between the sheets, dirty flirt that he was. “It’s a seven-layer lavender scented lemon sponge with raspberry-poppy seed coulis and whipped cream icing.”

“Sounds delicious,” John smiled at him. “Just like everything you do.”

“Shut up and come to bed.”

“Yes, my treasure, anything you like.”


End file.
